


Morale, Welfare, and Recreation

by amy_vic



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Medical Procedures, My First Work in This Fandom, Steve is incredibly competent, and Clint has some insecurity issues, and I am okay with that, but this is mostly just an excuse for some teaminess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy_vic/pseuds/amy_vic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint said he was fine, but Steve knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morale, Welfare, and Recreation

Once more, bad guys decide that causing a ruckus in New York would be a good idea. At least this time, they have the grace to hit Staten Island, leaving Manhattan alone; they're still cleaning up from last time.

Bruce is at the hospital looking in on a couple of kids who had some scaffolding fall on them (a few broken bones between them, but mostly just cuts, bruises and a story to tell their friends about how the Hulk rescued them), Natasha and Thor are on a post-battle burger run, and Tony is in the living room trying to get Phil to explain to Pepper that they really do have SHIELD-mandated downtime, and could Pepper please explain once more just why it is that Tony can't fuck off to Hawaii for two weeks of surfing and napping? ("Tony, you have a house in California overlooking the ocean; you can decide to go surfing, and literally be catching a set ten minutes later. You don't need to go all the way to Hawaii just to nap, let's be real." "But _Pepper_ — Phil, c'mon, could you just tell her—" "I like the North Shore as much as you do, Tony, but if you think I'm going up against Miss Potts on this, you're deluded.")

Clint's got his head in the fridge, looking for something to hold him over until Thor and Natasha come back, when Steve bumps his hip as he walks past. Clint fumbles the container he was holding. Last night's takeout scatters on the tile. "Hell, Steve, watch where you're going, huh?"

"I was," Steve says. Clint looks up, shuts the fridge door with more force than it needs, ready to ask Steve what the fuck that's supposed to mean. Steve just nods to the other side of the breakfast bar. "Sit down. Let me take a look at that."

"That" is Clint's stomach. He hadn't been quite fast enough, getting out of the way of some falling debris. He'd barely registered it at the time, mostly because he'd been too busy laying down cover fire for the others, and it didn't start bleeding all that heavily until about fifteen minutes ago, when he pulled off his uniform to change into sweats. The bandage he slapped on it doesn't feel like it's soaked through, so he figures he'll just let it scab over and heal up on its own.

"I told you, I'm fine," Clint says, rolling his eyes, because Steve _always does this_ , this 'checking on his team' shit, and it really gets on Clint's fucking nerves sometimes. Steve's out of arms reach, but Clint's not sure it's far enough. He grabs a dish towel off the counter, kneels to put another eighteen inches between him and Steve, and starts cleaning up rice noodles. 

"No," Steve says, "You told Phil you were fine, while I was halfway across the room." 

Clint stands up and tosses the dish towel in the sink. "Yeah, well, last I checked, you didn't go to med school, so get the fuck off my case about it." It's an asshole thing for him to say because Steve gets touchy sometimes about all the educational opportunities he (along with most guys his age) never got; back then it was pretty much either enlist or work for somebody's dad in a garage or storefront. It's also a pretty stupid thing to say, because Steve being the only guy in the battalion who could survive everything less than getting run over by a tank also meant that he was always the guy who the others came to when they needed their shoulder popped back into its socket, a bullet dug out of their thigh, or in a few rare cases when they were on their own in the middle of nowhere, their broken bones set and splinted with not much more than a busted riflestock and a couple of bootlaces. Steve is a guy who's read Gray's Anatomy three times, cover to cover, _just because_.

Steve moves, and Clint barely has a chance to lean backwards before Steve's fist makes contact with his abdomen. They spar a lot, and Clint knows Steve always pulls his punches unless they're in actual battle, but everything still explodes into white light and stars. His left hip feels like Steve just set it on fire.

Next thing he knows, Clint is lying face up on a table, his shirt is nowhere to be seen, and his lower belly feels tight and sticky in a way that can only mean it's covered in drying blood. Steve looks down at him. "You have a choice," he says, quiet and even. "You lie still and let me take care of this, or I call Phil in here and he can do it. Is his being disappointed in you for lying to him worth it, even if he doesn't decide to keep you out of the field for a month?" 

For a guy who's got the reputation of being so wholesome and upstanding and _good_ , Steve fights dirty; he has no problems hitting you exactly where it'll hurt the most. Clint curses and tries to swing his legs off the table. He gets his boots off the edge and is sitting partially upright before Steve presses two fingers lightly against his chest and pushes him back down. "Hey, Tony," Steve calls, turning toward the living room, "You got a couple sets of restraints I can borrow, maybe some rope?"

Even from this distance, Clint can hear Tony snort. "Yeah, I think I could wrangle some up. You want the fuzzy handcuffs, or the heavy duty ones?"

"Heaviest you've got," Steve says, looking back at Clint. Clint closes his eyes, take a deep breath, and settles his hands lightly around the edges of the table. "Nevermind, guess I don't need them after all."

It's not the deepest cut Clint's ever gotten, but it's long enough that he figures it's probably in the top five, maybe top three. Steve takes his time putting in the stitches, pulling each one through his skin slowly, making sure the thread isn't tangled or twisted before tightening it and beginning the next. He also hums, and if it wouldn't hurt so much, Clint would laugh once he recognizes the song.

"Never in a million years would I have pegged you for a Janis Joplin fan."

Steve pulls another stitch through. Clint barely feels the needle—the whole area's pretty numb at this point, but he's not sure if it's from the pain or if Steve actually gave him anasthetic—but he can feel every tug and slide of the thread, and it is just...weird. "You really wanna question the musical tastes of the guy currently sewing your guts up?"

"My guts are fine, it's really not that big a gash," Clint protests. Steve pauses mid-stitch, and without a word, holds up a bloody hand towel. When he drops it back onto the table, it squelches. "Okay. It may be a decent sized gash, but my guts are obviously not in any real danger, or else you'd have just shipped me off to Medical instead of laying me out on Stark's kitchen table and playing doctor."

"Trust me, Barton," Steve's mouth pulls up at one side, a sharp, dirty grin that Clint has never seen. His hands don't stop, surgeon-calibre sutures at military precise intervals, "if I was playing doctor, you'd know." 

Since there's absolutely no way he can think to respond to that without sounding like they're suddenly in a cheap porn flick, Clint shuts up and holds still while Steve works. Steve finishes the last stitch, ties it deftly with only one hand, and wipes the remaining blood off Clint's skin. "Ta-da," he says.

"You know, nobody likes a showoff," Clint says. He looks down at his belly, at the little ladder rungs running alongside his belly button. "That's...wow, that's a hell of a lot of stitches." 

"You're welcome," Steve says, swatting away Clint's hand so he can cover the whole thing with some gauze. "Now, do you think you can keep Natasha from eating half my fries before I've finished washing up?"

Clint laughs. "I doubt it."


End file.
